“It’s an awful distance from town!” says Sir Adrian, as if apologizing for the spot on which his grand old castle has been built.  “And it was more than good of you to come to me.  I can only try to make up to you for the discomfort you have experienced to-day by throwing all possible chances of amusement in your way whilst you stay here.”

By this time she has withdrawn her hand, and so he is free to go up to his other guest and bid her welcome.  He says nothing to her, strange to say, but it is his hand that seeks to retain hers this time, and it is his eyes that look longingly into the face before him.

“You are tired, too?” he says at length.  “Come into the house and rest awhile before dinner.  You will like to go to your rooms at once, perhaps?” he adds, turning to his two visitors.

“Thank you—­yes.  If you will have our tea sent upstairs,” replies Mrs. Talbot plaintively, “it will be such a comfort!” she always speaks in a somewhat pouting tone, and with heavy emphasis.

“Tea—­nonsense!” responds Sir Adrian.  “There’s nothing like champagne as a pick-me-up.  I’ll send you tea also; but, take my advice, and try the champagne.”

“Oh, thank you, I shall so much prefer my tea!” Mrs. Talbot declares, with a graceful little shrug of her shoulders, at which her friend Miss Delmaine laughs aloud.

“I accept your advice, Sir Adrian,” she says, casting a mischievous glance at him from under her long lashes.  “And—­yes, Dora will take champagne too—­when it comes.”

“Naughty girl!” exclaims Mrs. Talbot, with a little flickering smile.  Dora Talbot seldom smiles, having learned by experience that her delicate face looks prettier in repose.  “Come, then, Sir Adrian,” she adds, “let us enter your enchanted castle.”

The servants by this time have taken in all their luggage—­that is, as much as they have been able to bring in the carriage; and now the two ladies walk up the steps and enter the hall, their host beside them.

Mrs. Talbot, who has recovered her spirits a little, is chattering gayly, and monopolizing Sir Adrian to the best of her ability, whilst Miss Delmaine is strangely silent, and seems lost in a kind of pleased wonder as she gazes upon all her charming surroundings.

The last rays of light are streaming in through the stained-glass windows, rendering the old hall full of mysterious beauty.  The grim warriors in their coats of mail seem, to the entranced gaze of Florence Delmaine, to be making ready to spring from the niches which hold them.

Waking from her dream as she reaches the foot of the stone staircase, she says abruptly, but with a lovely smile playing round her mouth—­

“Surely, Sir Adrian, you have a ghost in this beautiful old place, or a secret staircase, or at least a bogy of some sort?  Do not spoil the romantic look of it by telling me you have no tale of terror to impart, no history of a ghostly visitant who walks these halls at the dead of night.”